A Life Well Spent
by kci47
Summary: A look into the life of Mrs. Figg, Harry's most unexplored protector. Written for the "Women to look up to" challenge on HPFC.


Arabella Doreen Wiggleswade was the very-most middle daughter, third in a family with five. Araminta, Adelicia, Arabella, Aurelia, and Alejandra were their parents' pride and joy, and the girls were inseparable as children. Inseparable, that is, until Arabella demonstrated a glaring difference from her siblings: she wasn't magical.

By the time she was eight years old, it was obvious she was a Squib. Oh, her parents never used that word in her presence, no; but the truth of it was there, plain as day – Arabella couldn't do magic. While her elder sisters headed off to Hogwarts, she began attending a Muggle school for girls. She wasn't fussed about it, not really. She had a few neighborhood friends, and the girls at her school were nice enough. No, it wasn't until her younger sisters began attending Hogwarts, as well, that Arabella truly felt left out.

It grew worse as the girls matured. The other four were pretty, vivacious, popular – and talented witches, to boot. Arabella was just herself: not ugly, but not classically pretty. She therefore dove into her studies with a relentless energy that saw her graduating at the top of her class. She volunteered with a local women's group and taught herself to play several instruments in her spare time. None of it garnered her the kind of attention that her parents loved to lavish on her sisters, however.

The Wiggleswades came from a long line of wizards, and as Arabella reached her teenage years, she began to realize that her parents were unconcerned with politics, economics, or anything else besides their precious social standing. Araminta was married to a prominent Wizengamot member directly out of school, and her parents were ecstatic. Adelicia, never to be outdone, was engaged to the Minister's undersecretary before she even graduated from Hogwarts. Aurelia caught the eye of a wealthy Diagon Alley shop owner one afternoon over the Easter holidays during her seventh year, and the arranged marriage was signed and sealed the next day. She never did finish school.

Arabella wasn't stupid – she knew what fate awaited her once Alejandra, too, had been married off and her parents could turn their attention to their poor, unloved middle daughter. Vowing to set her own path in life, she began to work at a local seamstress' shop on the weekends. She told her parents she was taking extra courses at school, and while it was obvious they disapproved, they were equally glad to have her out of their sight for that many more hours a day. She scrupulously saved her meager earnings and kept an eye on the exchange rates in the _Daily Prophet_.

It was, perhaps, no surprise when Arabella was called in to the parlor one sunny afternoon to "meet a gentleman friend" of her parents. The wizard was old, rotund, and wheezy – none of the characteristics at the top of Arabella's list when she dared to dream about her future husband. After a painful half hour of idle chatter, Arabella could take it no more.

"Am I to be married to him, then?" she asked her parents matter-of-factly. She ignored the scandalized glance her mother aimed at her, instead keeping her eyes locked with her father. He had always had a bit of a soft spot for her, or so she thought.

"Now, sweetie, no one's said anything about marriage!" her dad chortled. "Mr. Voxhall is just here to visit with us, and he wanted to meet one of our lovely daughters." Her father's tone, while genial, held a hint of warning.

"Please don't patronize me, Da," she answered, standing calmly. "I'm nineteen, you've never mentioned Mr. Voxhall before, and I highly doubt that he had any interest in meeting your _Squib _daughter. He's here to buy me like a common toad, but my answer is no."

The explosion was immediate and immense. Voxhall had apparently been laboring under the assumption that Arabella was eager to wed any wizard that would have her, and her parents were equally as outraged at her brazen refusal. After ushering Voxhall out of their home, her parents spent the next hour raging at her and pacing the parlor floor. They had never called her a Squib before, but today – today, they called her that, and worse. 'Useless', 'embarrassment', 'blight on the Wiggleswade name' – Arabella allowed all of it to flow past her. Hiding her disappointment in her family's lack of regard for her, she began to plan what she would do next.

She couldn't stay here, that was certain. Arabella was not chattel to be bartered and sold to the highest bidder. She could only imagine what sort of depravity or flaw in character had forced Voxhall to agree to marry a Squib. She may not be as pretty or as well-liked (or, amongst the Wizarding community, even as well-_known_) as her sisters, but she knew her own worth, and she would not bow to anyone's wishes but her own.

She had roughly fifty Galleons saved up by now, which she thought would be enough to get her to London and cover a room at the Leaky Cauldron until she could find employment. It was a matter of minutes to pack her belongings – having never been able to rely on magic, Arabella was frighteningly efficient at doing things herself – and within the hour she had said her goodbyes and was on a coach to London. She never looked back.

* * *

><p>Many years later, Arabella was a permanent fixture at Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Madam Malkin had agreed to take her on only after Arabella had begged, pleaded, and demonstrated every sewing skill she knew. Finally, Madam Malkin had relented, and admitted that she could use an extra pair of hands. She even had a small room above the shop that she would let to Arabella for a reasonable price.<p>

However, Arabella was not a seamstress – that was left for the magical girls who worked there. No, Arabella performed only the most menial of tasks: collecting the pins that fell and embedded themselves in the carpet. Attempting to soothe irate customers whose orders were not completed to their satisfaction. Cleaning up the bodies of the mice that her cat killed in the alleyway behind the shop.

Still, Arabella was happy. She was employed, she had a roof over her head, and most importantly, she was not Arabella Voxhall. And, she liked feeling connected to the magical world, instead of completely on her own in the Muggle world. From time to time, she encountered her parents or sisters in the shop when they came to purchase robes, and with the exception of Alejandra, they all pretended not to see her. Being the baby of the family, Alejandra had always admired her older sister – perhaps even more so when Arabella had made her stand and ventured forth on her own. Alejandra kept her up to date on the many nieces and nephews she was not allowed to see, and showed her support by encouraging all of her high-society friends to shop at Madam Malkin's.

As the years rolled on, however, Arabella came to notice just how invisible she really was to many of the customers. Very few witches and wizards gave any consideration to Squibs, most of them assuming that Squibs were either very stupid or very pitiable. Arabella was neither, but as strange and terrible things began to happen, she discovered just how useful it could be to be a Squib amongst wizards. Rarely did anyone cease their conversations when she entered a room; rarely did they lower their voices as they discussed nefarious plans; rarely did anyone pay any attention to her whatsoever. And as Voldemort's ascent into power grew stronger, Arabella found herself in a prime position to assist Dumbledore and his gang of resistance leaders, a group he was calling the Order of the Phoenix.

Arabella routinely provided tips to Dumbledore whenever she overheard information being whispered in the dressing rooms. She was able to move among the seedier parts of Diagon and Knockturn Alleys without attracting any notice, and she soon proved herself a valuable asset to the Order. Perhaps the best part was that the name 'Arabella' was not recognized by many of the more prominent Wizarding families – and as long as she used her fake name, Mrs. Figg, she was virtually unknown. Dumbledore was most pleased.

It was an unusually cloudy day in August one year when a flame-haired beauty entered Madam Malkin's, needing to lengthen her school robes. Arabella was sent to pin the robes while Madam Malkin finished up with another customer. Smiling at the girl, Arabella was pleased to receive a bright smile in return. She knelt and busied herself with the pins, mentally prioritizing the list of tasks that she needed to complete once she was done with the shoppers. It was because of her preoccupation that she startled when the girl asked her what her name was. Unfortunately, the pins flew everywhere.

"Oh! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to distract you!" the girl exclaimed as Arabella began to scoop up all the pins. "I just like to chat with people, you know, and… well, I'm Lily, by the way," she finished.

"Arabella," she muttered around the pins that were precariously clamped between her lips. She stiffened when the girl knelt, as well, and began pick up the scattered pins with her.

"Why don't you just Accio them?" Lily asked. Her tone was merely curious, not condescending or mocking, so Arabella felt safe in answering.

"I'm non-magical," Arabella said, her eyes darting up to meet Lily's briefly. She saw no pity there, and she felt her shoulders relax in relief.

"Well, that's not anything to be fussed over, is it?" Lily laughed. "Honestly, sometimes I miss just making myself a sandwich with my own two hands." She continued to help Arabella with the pins until they were all back in the little box.

The two stood, and Arabella was able to look at the girl fully now. She was probably sixteen or seventeen, and her robes bore the crimson and gold of Gryffindor House.

"Thank you for the help," Arabella told her, smiling slightly.

"It was my fault to start with, I'm afraid, so no thanks are necessary," Lily laughed. Arabella returned to her task of pinning Lily's robes, and they continued to chat as she worked. Lily was extremely friendly and very open. She was possibly the first person who had seen, really _seen_, Arabella in a very, very long time. When Arabella was finished, she warmly wished Lily an excellent school year, and spent the rest of the day with a happy smile on her face.

* * *

><p>Several years later, Lily was back in Madam Malkin's, but everything was different. She was pale, troubled, and far too gaunt for someone in her condition. She demanded Arabella specifically, and told Madam Malkin in no uncertain terms that she would allow no one else to work on her maternity robes. For some reason, Lily wanted everything sewn by hand, and Madam Malkin was only too happy to be able to comply with such an unusual request. Arabella was instructed to drop all her other work until Lily's robes were completed.<p>

As she measured Lily, she noted the many changes in the bubbly girl she'd first met three years ago. Lily was quiet, reserved, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. As a member of the Order, Arabella knew, of course, that Voldemort was growing stronger, but she didn't know why it would have upset Lily quite this much. When she asked if everything was alright, Lily finally turned all her attention to Arabella.

"I'm fine, yes," she said softly. "I'm terribly sorry – I've not been good company today, have I?"

"You're quite pregnant, Lily, it's understandable," the older woman reassured her.

"It's not the pregnancy, I-" But Lily paused, her gaze clouding. "It's fine," she repeated woodenly.

Arabella furrowed her brow in disbelief but did not press further. It was unlike Lily Evans – no, it was Potter now, wasn't it? – to keep to herself, but Arabella supposed she was worried about the state of their world, just like everyone else. When she waved Lily off, she had no idea that it would be the last time she saw her young friend.

When the news came a little over a year later, Arabella took the morning off and lay curled on her bed, numb. How could anyone want to kill Lily? She had been the nicest, most generous witch that Arabella had ever met. And Lily's baby – oh, it was heartbreaking, that's what it was.

At the next Order meeting, Arabella sat in her customary place at the back of the room, partially hidden in shadows. She was most useful to the Order if few people knew who she actually was, so she rarely socialized with them. As Dumbledore explained to everyone what had happened – both fact and conjecture – Arabella felt the trickle of tears on her cheeks.

And when Dumbledore asked who might be willing to live their life down the street from The Boy Who Lived, Arabella was striding forward and offering herself before he'd even finished his question. There was nothing keeping her at Madam Malkin's, no family to speak of, no doubt in her mind that Voldemort was still a threat.

Lily's baby needed someone, needed _her_, and she would not entrust this task to anyone else. Dumbledore's solemn smile and nod of approval filled Arabella with a sense of great responsibility, and as they made plans for her future, she did not hesitate for a moment.

* * *

><p>Arabella answered the door to find the Dursleys and Harry standing there, all four of them looking extremely unhappy. She held the door open and gestured for them to come in, but Vernon merely pushed Harry forward with a meaty hand and barked, "We'll be back at six o'clock!"<p>

She sighed as she watched the three Muggles hurry to their car, anxious to get away from the old lady with all the cats – and away from Harry. Turning, she inspected the small boy. He was underfed, but that was nothing new; and he looked as though he would much rather be anywhere else but here. Though it pained her, it was important that Harry not enjoy his time with her, or else the Dursleys would find another neighbor to watch him, and that would never do.

"Don't just stand there, boy, I've got cucumber sandwiches in the kitchen, come along!" She bustled off, but not before hearing the retching sounds the boy was making behind her back.

Arabella watched sadly as Harry choked down sandwich after sandwich. He hated cucumber, bless him, but he was so hungry that he couldn't resist. Surreptitiously she checked him for any visible bruises, and was pleased when she did not find any. The last time he'd been here, a livid purple bruise was blooming across his face, and he'd mumbled something about his haircut not working properly. She'd never condoned murder, but at that moment, she'd wanted nothing more than to personally strangle each and every Dursley (and all of their terrible ancestors). Anyone who could hit an eight-year-old boy was no one that Arabella approved of.

It was times like this where Arabella desperately wished she could do magic. She could heal his bruises but make them look like they were still there; she could feed him sandwiches that tasted good but still seemed like cucumber; she could hold him and cuddle him and play with him and tell him that he was a wonderful little boy, and hide the memory before he had to go home.

That was exactly what they'd do whenever Minerva could make it to the house. She and Arabella had grown quite close during the years since Harry had been brought to live with the Dursleys; they were of an age, after all, and both women were prone to coddling Harry. Minerva would arrive in her cat form, and Arabella would close all the curtains and lock the doors before the other woman would reveal herself. Then, they'd spend the entire afternoon doing whatever little Harry wanted: watching TV, playing games, eating cakes and crisps and puddings.

Arabella loved these times most of all. She was unreserved with her affection for Harry, as was Minerva. As the boy grew older, he wanted fewer hugs, it was true; but the women could still ruffle his hair and kiss his boo-boos and tuck him in when he napped. When it neared the time that the Dursleys were expected to return, however, Minerva and Arabella would each hug him tightly before Minerva would carefully Obliviate little Harry, planting memories of miserable hours spent looking at cat photos, instead.

Minerva would be back to her cat form before Harry knew what had happened, and it was the same sullen boy they'd dropped off that the Dursleys always returned to. It broke Arabella's heart, but what was she to do? He couldn't ever know who and what she was, couldn't ever think even for a moment that he was happy with her, or else his aunt and uncle would have him out of there faster than a house-elf could Apparate.

The sense of dejection that washed over Arabella each time she had to send Harry back to that awful house was nothing, _nothing _compared to what would happen if she failed and he was taken from her for good.

* * *

><p>In September of 1995, Arabella was jostled from reading her newspaper (Muggle; she didn't dare receive the <em>Prophet<em> at her house) by the sudden appearance of two robed figures in her kitchen. Luckily, she was accustomed to the ways of wizards, so her heart slowed its panic before she reached for her trusty frying pan.

"Arabella D. Wiggleswade Figg, of Number 18, Wisteria Walk?" one of the men inquired.

"Yes, that's me," she answered, every instinct urging her to be on the defensive.

"We're with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and we're here about your Kneazles," the other man intoned.

"I have all of the proper permits to breed half-Kneazles, gentlemen," she said coolly. "I file them with your office every year as required. If you've misplaced your copy, just give me one moment and I can locate mine-"

"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Figg. We're here to collect the animals and then we'll be on our way." She shivered at the glint in his eyes.

"What do you mean? You're not taking them?" Her body tensed as though preparing for a physical altercation.

"That's exactly what we mean, ma'am," the larger of the two men answered her. "The Department has reason to suspect that one or more unregistered Animagi may be residing in-"

"That's outlandish!" Arabella retorted. "I've had each of these cats and Kneazles for years, and all of them have been catalogued with the Ministry. There's no way any of my animals is a – is a – a dark wizard in disguise!"

"Be that as it may, Mrs. Figg, we're going to have to take them. You are, of course, welcome to appeal this decision within seven days," the larger man said. The other one pulled a bright purple bag from his pocket, and Arabella saw "DANGER: Confiscated Creature" written on the cloth in gold lettering.

Arabella gasped. She knew what fate awaited any animal taken away in those bags. "You're going to execute my pets!" she cried. "I demand to know why-" But suddenly it was all terribly, horrifyingly clear. "You're taking them because I testified for Harry Potter in his case about the Dementors," she said dully.

"As I said before, ma'am, they're being taken on suspicion of unreg-"

"Oh, don't you dare!" she snapped, anger filling her once again. "You know as well as I do that these cats are harmless, and that the Ministry is only killing them to punish me for speaking on Harry's behalf. There's not a Wrackspurt's chance in Ravenclaw that I'll be able to file an appeal in time to save them."

Her statements were confirmed when the two men merely exchanged a glance before pulling their wands out. "Now, Mrs. Figg, we don't want to make this difficult," one began.

"Oh, no, great Godric himself forbid that this become _difficult_," she hissed. She watched helplessly as the men summoned her beloved pets into the bag, but she would not give them the satisfaction of crying. She even knew that she wouldn't be filing an appeal – she was bound to lose, and she couldn't ask Dumbledore to intervene. He was already on shaky ground with the Wizengamot, and her pets were inconsequential in the war against Voldemort.

It only took ten minutes, and the men were gone. Arabella looked around her house, empty and quiet for the first time in over twenty-five years. She swiped angrily at a tear that had escaped her eye before throwing her shoulders back and marching from the room. She needed to talk to Dumbledore – there had to be something more she could do to help bring down each and every one of Harry Potter's enemies.

* * *

><p>The night before they moved Harry, Arabella was too full of adrenaline to sleep. Instead, she inspected every inch of her small house, ensuring that her weapons were easily in reach and her personal belongings – little though they were – were safely hidden away. When it had come time to set her things in order, Arabella had carefully selected the best picture of each of her beloved cats. These were tenderly wrapped in an unfinished robe that was meant to be Lily's before her death, and placed in a small trunk. In, too, went a handful of drawings from her nieces and nephews, back when they had been children. Alejandra had given them to her just before she'd moved to Little Whinging, and it was all she had of her family. Next, she packed away the single red phoenix feather that Dumbledore had given her so many years ago – the night she'd volunteered to be Harry's lookout. A still Muggle photograph of the man she had briefly loved and lost was the final item to go in the trunk.<p>

Arabella looked again at the tiny collection of these things that symbolized her whole life. She had been checking and rechecking the trunk every day, as though something would have sprouted legs and wandered off. She hoped she would be able to grab this trunk if she needed to run. Closing it and tucking it into the hidden alcove in the living room, she stood slowly and looked out the window. If she craned her neck just so, she had a clear view of Number 4, Privet Drive. She wondered what she would do with her life now that Harry would be away from the Dursleys for good.

Maybe she would retire from the Order and travel the world. Maybe she'd seek out her sisters and try to find some common ground. Maybe… maybe she would stay right where she was, growing old and eventually dying right here in the little cottage that had been her home for the last sixteen years. No, she couldn't allow herself to become morose, not now. Her life had been at times fulfilling, lonely, monotonous, nerve-wracking, heartbreaking, exhilarating, and a hundred other things, but it had always, _always _been lived according to her satisfaction. She'd never regretted the day she'd walked away from Voxhall, because it had led her to Dumbledore and Lily and her noble work as Harry's anonymous guardian. As she contemplated everything she'd done in her life, she stood there until the sun rose the next morning, neck tilted uncomfortably, staring at Harry's window.

That evening, Arabella watched as the members of Harry's guard arrived. She watched as the Dursleys loaded up the car and disappeared. She watched as Harry drifted aimlessly around his childhood home. She watched as the lights in the house flickered out one by one. She watched and worried as the night sky lit up with explosions of red, gold, purple, and, most alarmingly, green.

When the Death Eaters began to fall out of the sky, Arabella knew what she had to do. Pulling up to the house on her Muggle riding mower, Arabella sprayed her can of mace into every face she could reach, and used her cane to knock out the more stubborn ones. If she could keep even one from returning to the battle that was clearly being waged above them, then she would consider her own small battle a success.

She had just maced the last conscious Death Eater and was surveying the scene, trying to decide what she could do next. There must be something she could do to help, but how to restrain all these wizards? She wasn't as young as she used to be, and already the fear that had driven her this far was waning, leaving her feeling merely bruised and exhausted. It was hardly a surprise, then, when the still-stirring Death Eater fired a curse in her general direction that she was unable to dodge it completely.

As the flare of green light struck her thigh, Arabella's final thought was that in all her years of being a Squib, she had never felt as much a part of the magical community as she did at that very moment.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Arabella and I thank the lovely WeasleySeeker for beta-reading this piece on terribly short notice! Written in response to Masks and Teapots' "Women to look up to" challenge on HPFC. Someone had received Mrs. Figg and opted for a switch, and I decided to take her. I'm glad I did! I think she deserved to have her story told, and the more I thought about what might have led her to be Harry Potter's guard, essentially, the more I was intrigued. I'm not JK Rowling, and I sadly do not make any money from this. I hope you enjoyed this** **as much as I did.**


End file.
